Kick, ball, change....

Happy Mother’s Day! I am currently sitting on the patio of my local Starbucks, child-free, which is the best gift ever. Unacceptable Mother’s Day gifts, for those of you who don’t know, are kitchen appliances, cleaning equipment of any kind, gift certificates to home improvement stores, or anything that can or should be used for the betterment or beautification of anything or anyone other than the mother herself.*

I feel a little guilty getting away today since poor H also needs a break, as well, after we were out last night at our daughters’ dance recital. Sweet Jesus, is there anything more painful than a suburban elementary school dance recital? I know it sounds cute and all, but let me trap you in an poorly air-conditioned auditorium for two hours, as you watch the awkward product of a year’s worth of dance lessons, set to the soundtrack of every Disney movie ever made, and tell me you don’t think those prisoners they water-boarded got off easy.

The night of the recital is one of my daughters’ favorite nights. For two kids who get terror-sweats having to tell the waitress at the diner they’ll have pancakes, they surprisingly do not mind performing in front of hundreds of parents. Do they love the stage? Do they love dance with every fiber of their being? No, it’s the costumes. Sequins, feathers, satiny spandex in blindingly bright colors – my girls are in heaven. It’s the one night a year yuppie parents, whose offspring are usually entirely outfitted by Crewcuts, let their children dress like they’re participating in the talent portion of a Kentucky Junior Miss pageant. There is enough synthetic fabric held together with fashion-grade sewing glue, a single spark and the place would be like a tap-dancing Hindenburg. The designs of the costumes are chosen to vaguely represent something in the song chosen, for example, #2’s costume was completely covered in pink fishscale sequins, as her song was “Under the Sea” from The Little Mermaid. The fifth graders who danced to “Cruella Deville” wore red-sequined flapper dresses with black feather boas draped over their shoulders. H thought they were supposed to be Vegas showgirls.

Once you regain your eyesight, after having your retinas burned from the light bouncing off ten-thousand sequins, the dancing, of course, is the most tortuous part of the night. The dance teachers who plan this thing know what they are doing. They start you off easy with the adorable kindergarten ballet class. Everyone smiles indulgently watching them plie with their tutus hiked up under their armpits and their little girl bellies poking out. Then, once you are lulled into a sense of safety, you are smacked in the face with the awkwardness that is the fifth grade hip-hop class. You can not look away from the horror, as ten year-olds wearing striped shirts with some kind of raggedy looking vest (H asks, “Are they prisoners? Pirates?”), track pants and Kangol-esque hats try to pop and lock. It winds up looking like ten girls having simultaneous epileptic fits. You are given a break with the first grade jazz class, dressed as lions, dancing to a song from The Lion King, only to have to suffer through the third grade tap routine. Bring in Da’ Noise, Bring in the Da’ Funk, this is not.

Have you noticed a relation ship between the age of the dancers and the cringe-inducing effects of their performance? It is directly proportional after second grade. Once the baby fat is truly gone from their bodies, and they lose the, aforementioned, adorable potbellies, you are left with girls who do not know how to control their rapidly growing limbs and who look strange in child-like fairy costumes, but like JonBennet Ramsey in anything mature. And the poor chubby girls. I love they are up their rocking their shit, but if your daughter runs toward the husky, for the love of Christ, make sure her costume fits properly. How comfortable would you be in panty hose a size to small, cutting into your abdomen? But there is only so much a parent can do to prevent their child looking like a total dork, when you are not choosing the costume. As I mentioned back around Halloween, with her glasses, #1 has a distinctly The Girl from the No Rain Video look which can not be helped. And as the girls age, you can see the gap widening between the truly rhythmically blessed and the regular folk. By third grade, there are only one or two girls who can really dance in each class. You have nine girls in the hip-hop class trying , unsuccessfully, to do the arm wave, and one girl who, I swear to God, doing The Worm across the stage. She is also the girl who can do the flexed arm hang in gym.

Despite their lack of expertise, the girls sign up year after year simply because they love to dance, and that idea makes the pain of watching worth it. I am proud of my girls for getting up there and just enjoying moving their bodies whether or not they are the best dancers. We can all learn something from that. It’s been embroidered on enough throw pillows to make we want to gouge my own eyes out, but it reminds us all to dance, or live, like no one is watching. And it’s even better if you are entirely covered in sequins, feathers and synthetic fringe while doing so.

(And you are all welcome for re-posting that picture of me before my eighth grade jazz dance recital)

*Unless requested by the mother, which make you a better mother than me.

"AND HE WAS IRISH TOO!!!!!!"...or why not to use exclamation points on a headstone

I thought I had a good segue into today’s post with it being Cinco de Mayo and all, but I was confusing it with the Day of the Dead. Maybe all the parties and promotions at local Mexican joints would have tipped me off that this was not a day for celebrating and remembering the beloved deceased. Oh well.

I went to a truly heartbreaking wake this past weekend, for a friend’s husband. Out of respect for my friend I will not go into detail, but between that and Mother’s Day coming up, I began to think about the rituals surrounding death and how they affect the way we grieve. More to the point, I began to entertain, for the first time in almost fifteen years, voluntarily going to the cemetery to visit my mother’s grave.

I know that sounds terrible. The last time I chose to go was the day H and I got married. I have been between then and now, but only because we were burying, yet another, member of my mother’s family (again, we are like the Kennedys and should get a group rate on burial plots). My mother’s grave site has never been a place I truly felt anything but anxiety. With the exception of my wedding day, when I went with one friend, going there has always been riddled with performance anxiety. When I accompanied other family members, I always felt like I had to match the emotional reaction of the person or people I was with. If they were crying I had to cry. Sometimes, I really just wanted to sit quietly and think about her.

Part of healing is moving on to the stage when you can celebrate the life of the person who is gone, without being ripped apart by the fact they are no longer with you. Going to the cemetery never seemed like it would help with my grief. Staring at a cold stone did nothing to help me remember the woman my mother was and the life she lead. I felt closest to my mother talking with her sisters and friends, remembering all the crazy-ass things she said and did.

I think that’s why gatherings like wakes are helpful. To distract you from the fact that you will be putting, or have put, this person you love into the ground or in a box and never, ever see them again. I have to say I’m all for the Jewish tradition of sitting shiva with no body present. Even when it was my own mother, I just could not get past the fact that there was a dead body in the room. I found it distressing beyond belief and distracting. I know it is part of the process of letting go, but let’s be honest, nobody looks like themselves, in their casket, with all that cakey makeup on. Unless that mortician is using MAC products, I myself, will be insisting on a closed casket. That will also save H the horrible task of picking an outfit to bury me in (since I get to die first). I don’t even want to know what he’d pick out.

Once you get past the corpse aspect though, wakes are really a beautiful thing. Everyone who loves the person is in one room together talking and reminiscing. I have noticed a trend, as of late, of having a video in the room, of photos set to music, which I think is really lovely. Sure there are tears, but there can be some laughter sprinkled in there. I heard some of the best stories about my mother during her wake and at the reception at our house afterwards. Ever heard the song “Finnegan's Wake”? It’s not just a stereotype. Sure, with the invention of funeral homes, we Irish aren’t drinking around our dearly departed, we have to wait until we get home after, but I loved having a few drinks and listening to my aunt retell the story of my parent’s first date where my mom sassed the hell out of my father, or the story of how, as a teenager, she threw a dresser drawer of underwear out a 6th story window after her twin sister messed up their just-organized dresser.

So compared to these lively tales, my mother’s grave seems cold and lonely. We just really aren’t the kind of family who leaves photos in Ziploc bags or teddy bears at site, like the family to the right of my mother. We were tasteful in the inscription we chose, including the pertinent information and the last few lines of an Irish blessing (“...and until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of his hand”), unlike the joker on her left whose family put, in all caps, “AND HE WAS IRISH TOO!!!!!!” And, yes, there are that many exclamation points. But how do you sum up someone’s life in stone? Maybe their way is better, maybe they feel more of a connection when they visit. Were we supposed to write “She’d kick your ass and make you love her, all at the same time”?

My children have never been to “see” my mother. The visit I am contemplating might include them, but after a dinnertime discussion of the logistics of death and bodily remains, during which #1 burst into tears, I don’t think they’re ready yet. I also don’t want this vast field of marble to be what they associate with my mother. I work hard for them to see her as the smiling face next to their eight year-old mother's in the photo booth picture, the woman had red hair like Mommy, who loved potato chips like they do. And maybe, that’s the reason I don’t want to go. For myself, I don’t want to associate such a lifeless place with my mother, despite everyone’s best efforts on Mother’s Day, with flowers and balloons, at the contrary. I want to see her at the kitchen table telling me not to take shit off some mean 8th grade girl. I want to see her laughing with her friends at a summer barbeque, drinking White Russians at a picnic table. I want to hear her telling me I am a good mother and wife and she’s proud of me. But I can’t have that, so I don’t go.

So I still haven’t made my decision, if after brunch I will be heading up north to the cemetery. Maybe I’ll decide how I feel that day. But if I do go, I sure as hell won’t be taking any teddy bears or balloons. I do like the tradition of pouring a drink on the grave, though, and having one for yourself. I think White Russians might curdle in the sun though.

Who do you want telling you about stocks?

I was watching the last few minutes of "Early Today" on NBC, if half-listening and grunting while doing crunches on the stability ball count as watching, when they had they daily report from the business channel, CNBC. I vaguely pay attention sometimes during this segment, listening for any major news, as H is in the business, but today I actually paused and watched. Why? Because I was struck by the way the typical female reporter in a typically male field had changed over the past ten years. I wasn't sure if I was watching the CNBC report, or an ad for a singles hotline.

The reporter, Nicole Lapin, is attractive by anyone's standards (that link is to her Facebook page, dig the "sexy librarian" thing she has going on). If I told you to imagine a female financial reporter, what would you envision? Probably some talking head, with short middle-aged woman hair and tasteful clip-on earrings . For those of you who don't know Ms. Lapin, she has long, like middle of her back long, hair, wears as much makeup as a Vegas showgirl and is twenty-five years old. Does she know her stuff? Seems like it, but I wonder if her looks, or the way she presents herself can or will get in the way of her career.

Like may areas in life, there is a double standard for men and women, and in broadcast journalism I'm sure there is no exception. But it seems women of today have taken the double standard and turned it to their advantage, or think they have. We have all noticed the trend in sideline sports reporting, of young attractive women interviewing athletes as they come off the field. Remember when Howard Cosell was around? I'm sure in an effort to boost ratings, sports producers are using beautiful, young women to draw in the male viewers. Because God knows, no men watch sports already. And while these young women are making in-roads into a typically male dominated field of reporting, are they leaving a bread crumb trail behind them that only the genetically blessed, or surgically or cosmetically enhanced can follow? Will they, as they age, have the staying power to keep women a real presence in these types of broadcasts?

It seems on CNBC, they are running the gamut. One of the first, and best known financial reporters is Maria Bartiromo. I love her (shockingly, she has no Facebook page). She is hella smart and articulate. I actually enjoyed watching Squawk Box, a financial news show, with H in the morning, since Maria could dish it and take it with Mark Haines and Kahuna and the Brain (they have since changed the line-up to still contain Joe Kernen, but add Rebecca Quick and Carl Quintanilla...snore). To answer the question, yes, she's attractive, but not in the boobies-in-your-face way. She also doesn't try to hide her femininity with short hair or oddly-colored, masculine blazers, ala Suze Orman (although H does not consider her a part of CNBC since she has been co-opted by Oprah). There area whole groups of ladies who are nice to look at, but don't look like that's why the got the job. And spare me the hate mail, I know these pretty ladies had to have something between their ears to land these jobs, they blithely throw around terms so confusing to me, I feel like I'm listening to Charlie Brown's teacher, but maybe a little less lip-gloss would not be so distracting.

I know I am also promoting another kind of double standard, that attractive women can not be taken seriously, which is equally unfair. Women are sort of screwed when it comes to this because there isn't a set "uniform" for us in certain businesses, like broadcasting. Typically, men in the news, wear suits and have short hair, but for women there are so many questions. Suit or dress? Long hair or short? How much eyeliner is too much? By looking at the picture of Amanda Drury above, sometimes bad cleavage choices are made. This is like Jim Cramer wearing his shirt unbuttoned - bad idea.

It will be interesting to see how this new trend shakes out, as these women age. I even see some of the plainer types on these channels grasping at the trend the longer in the tooth they get (I'm looking at you, Trish Regan, with your hair extensions and spray tan). I wonder if it will work. It all goes back to the adage of never judging a book by it's cover, but it seems young and beautiful is becoming the only acceptable cover when putting a female face in typically male environment. Personally, I think these producers need to do some field testing, because while it may work in sports, when it comes to news, financial and otherwise, we want no-nonsense women, who can give it to us straight, like Maria, or Kaite Couric. I'd say Sylvia Wadhwa (also pictured above), but that may be going a bit far.